


Scenery

by HolmesFan



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Jogger!Elizabeth, Modern AU, Norribeth, Past Willabeth, Professor!James, the profound and mystifying intimacy of unknowingly being an important part of someone else's life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25377034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesFan/pseuds/HolmesFan
Summary: He’s there every day. Even the dreary ones. Her familiar stranger. But is she his?
Relationships: Elizabeth Swann/Will Turner, James Norrington/Elizabeth Swann
Comments: 37
Kudos: 144





	Scenery

It should have been storming, the day Will left. It should have been grey and gloomy, with fat raindrops to serve as her tears and thunder to serve as her sobs. But there were neither raindrops nor tears; not that day. Only sunshine, a sea breeze, and the niggling notion that she should be hurting more than she was. That something that was once so important to her, important enough to change _everything,_ should warrant more than a half-hearted wave from the end of a dock and the equally half-hearted farewell lodged in the back of her throat.

But it didn’t take Elizabeth long to discover that, just as the beginning had changed everything, so, too, would the end.

Without him, their once claustrophobic hole-in-the-wall studio was made cavernous. Too empty. Too full of space for her bones to clatter around like wind chimes, ricocheting off the polaroids tacked to the smoke-yellowed walls. Without him, their regular booth at the pub, the one with their initials carved beneath the worn, wine-stained seat cushion, seemed somehow rapacious to keep when a single barstool could hold what was left of them just fine. Without him, each trip to the corner bakery was a fraught affair, for the stooped, elderly proprietor couldn’t seem to remember he needn’t package up sweet rolls at the sight of her anymore.

Will had given up their life together, but that didn’t mean he’d left it for her. Because without him, it turned out what they had was already gone. Nothing remained for Elizabeth to claim as her half.

So she had to give it up too.

Calls were made, checks were cashed, belongings were packed. And all that she carried of him into her new life was a shoebox coffin for their paper memories and a throbbing void beneath her breastbone. The other place he used to live. But he’d given that up as well.

Perhaps the worst part of it was that she couldn’t be angry with him for doing what he thought was best. Oh, she still was, but it wasn’t the sort of anger whose righteous blaze cauterizes and purifies. Instead it was a smouldering, artless thing, occasionally dampened by the knowledge that they were both better off, but never truly snuffed out. And its promise of consuming her the moment she abandoned her vigil was serious enough she needed to find an outlet.

So in a new city whose streets she had yet to memorize, in a flat whose corners were still heaped with unopened boxes, in a bed pushed against the wall to make it seem less large and empty, Elizabeth Swann decided it was time for another life change, one that would differ from the others because it wasn’t the product of someone else’s choices, but of her own.

She was going to become a morning person. And she was going to take up jogging.

\---

The ‘morning person’ part proves elusive, but it’s nothing a stop at the espresso joint on the way to the park can’t at least simulate. She’s heard it’s not healthy to mix coffee and exercise, but whoever said that can climb right back on their high horse and hit the bricks for all she cares. She’s coping, damn it, and that counts for something. Caffeine addiction is an unhappy side-effect she can sort out later. Much later. The kind of later that probably means never.

As she stretches in the dew-kissed grass near the park’s entrance, Elizabeth determines she’ll have enough time for five laps before she has to head home and shower for work. When she’d started all this, she could barely manage two, and the improvement pleases her. As does the way it has toned her muscles and increased her overall energy. Routine has been good for her, and the fact that it was she who established the routine from nothing makes it all the more empowering.

At the top of the trail, she starts clocking her first lap and sets off at a steady pace, allowing the practiced rhythm of her movements to take over as her mind wanders off the path and into the surrounding grounds. By now it’s all just the right kind of familiar to her; the exact location of her favorite oak trees, the earthy smell of freshly-turned flowerbeds, the hollow thumping of her shoes as she passes over the wooden bridge that spans the small creek feeding into the pond. She knows this place. Trusts it. Tucked away in the midst of the city as it is, there’s a sense of it being an oasis.

Her oasis.

Though that does not mean she doesn’t share it willingly. This park is a local favorite for dog owners, and Elizabeth has been known to pause and bestow adoring head pats and belly rubs upon any four-legged and eager recipients. And, if she’s in a particularly generous mood, she may even exchange pleasantries with their human companions.

Her next flat will be one that allows pets. That’s for certain.

She’s coming up on the curve with the trio of rose bushes, the ones she often pulls rubbish out of to deposit in the bin on her next lap, which means she’s minutes away from the wooden bench that overlooks the pond. Minutes away from the bench, and its customary resident, a man whose presence has become as familiar as the route beneath her feet. They’ve never spoken to one another, never been introduced, but he’s been there every morning since she’s started coming to this park, seated in his usual place when she arrives and remaining there until after she leaves.

For all she knows, he may very well live on that bench, though the impeccable lines of his professional clothing say otherwise. Some days it’s a blazer with a button-up. Some days a vest and a tie. Some days it's a finely knit jumper. But, no matter what he’s wearing, what he’s _doing_ is always the same: he sits there, some sort of journal open in his lap, brows drawn in concentration as he scratches away with a writing implement.

At first, Elizabeth had paid him very little mind. Handsome he may be, but her battered heart hadn’t allowed her to linger on it. She had, instead, ungraciously opted to find his public composition pretentious, the way one might roll their eyes at a man who posts up at the cafe with his laptop out, hoping that someone might glimpse the title of his screenplay and ask him about it.

But she didn’t ask. And he didn’t offer. In fact, he never acknowledged her passing at all. And that, oddly enough, endeared him to her more than any attempt to interact with her possibly could. He just let her be. And in doing so, had become as much a part of her morning run as the oaks and the bridge and the rose bushes.

Today is a jumper day. And there’s a pair of glasses perched on the end of his stately nose. It makes him look like a professor, an observation that mysteriously thrills her in some small measure. The clearing in which the bench is located offers a long approach with an unhindered view, so she has plenty of time to drink in the way a stray lock of dark hair has fallen across his forehead and how he absently brushes it back with ink-stained fingers. He flips a page as she crunches past him on the gravel trail, and she fights a smile at the way his hair instantly falls right back into place.

The next lap is much the same, though he’s now pushed his sleeves past his elbows, presumably to either get them out of the way or accommodate for the growing heat of the morning. For some reason, he’s always struck her as being a practical sort of man. Likely, it’s a bit of both.

The third lap offers a rare treat. It appears he’s brought a small bag of birdseed with him, and there are at least a dozen feathered supplicants in attendance, greedily pecking at the handful of offered vittles he distractedly casts their direction. A particularly brave sparrow tries to get at the bag itself, and the man utters a hiss of alarm before tutting and shooing it off.

Unbidden laughter bubbles over Elizabeth’s upturned lips, for the scene is too charming by half, but she’s already passing him by the time he looks up, and their streak of never making eye-contact remains unbroken.

 _A shame,_ she catches herself thinking. _I’ll bet he has lovely eyes._

The thought sobers her. It’s the most recent in a trend of baseless suppositions she’s made about this man. And said suppositions have a tendency to be more indicative of her own mental state than any real scrutiny of her favorite stranger.

On her melancholy days, he seems to take on a haunted aspect, back bowed, lips taught in a frown. A figure tinged with tragedy, perhaps widowed or jilted. Does he ache with loss too? Does he mourn plans made obsolete? Does he grieve for the person he once thought to be?

Some days, she almost resents him, irked by the room he occupies in her mind and, therefore, in her life. How dare he presume to mean something to her? What right does he have to exist in her direction without so much as a by your leave?

Her lonely moods beget different curiosities. She snags on the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his legs, the sure, deft articulation of his fingers. Would he put those fingers to good use? Could he light a fire beneath her flesh? If she asked, would he hold her? Would he let her hold him in return?

So. What is it that is coloring her observations today? What is the true source of the glittering fondness that swells as she passes him a fourth time and notes that he’s now allowing the sparrow to eat from the bag next to him without objection. It can’t be that she likes him. She doesn’t _know_ him. He’s a _stranger._ And he’s a stranger _on purpose._

Because that’s what she needs him to be. Like the oaks and the bridge and the rose bushes. He’s simply…

_Scenery._

Elizabeth does not make a fifth lap. And the rest of her day is askew because of it.

\---

The next morning, as Elizabeth rounds the rose bushes, the bench is empty. It’s so strange, so jarring, she stops in her tracks. She briefly wonders if he’d somehow heard her thoughts the previous day, and his truancy is a reaction, but the absurdity of the idea has her shaking her head at herself and continuing her jog with renewed vigor.

There are any number of reasons a grown man might adjust his schedule. It has nothing to do with her. And more than that, it’s none of her damn business.

Except then he’s gone the next day as well. And the next. And Elizabeth cannot shake the terrible feeling that something awful may have happened. She has no proof beyond the muted dread fluttering in her gut and her looming fear that something else, _someone else,_ is being taken away. Another decision made for her. Another change over which she has no control.

But that doesn’t make sense, does it? Why should she feel the loss of this stranger so keenly? Why does his absence taint not only her morning ritual, but the rest of her day?

She dreams of him that night. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t make eye-contact, but he does hold her. And he lets her hold him in return.

The following morning, Elizabeth doesn’t even attempt to run. Instead, she trudges straight to the bench overlooking the pond and slumps down into her stranger’s spot.

She feeds the birds, stares into space, and misses him.

\---

A week passes, and, without warning, he’s back. Elizabeth’s stranger is back. And it’s a jumper day again. With the glasses.

Her favorite.

But...what has changed? Nothing? _Everything?_ As she passes him on her first lap, it takes every ounce of her willpower not to wheel on him and demand to know where he’s been. She wants to scold him. She wants to kiss him. But she does neither, jogging by with a swish of her long braid and the sinking realization that her agony has been completely one-sided.

He is her stranger, yes. But she isn’t his. And all her projection and presumption and powerless panic this past week. _No._ Since the very first day she encountered him, it has all been in her head, a product of her own piffling attempts to sort through the pieces of her broken heart and cobble her life back together.

He’s her stranger, and what is she to him?

Is she simply...scenery?

_No. Not anymore._

The next lap ends at his feet, her shadow slithering across the crisp, white pages of his notebook. Her stranger looks up.

His eyes are clover green. And she was right. They _are_ lovely.

‘Good morning,’ she says.

His lips fall open a fraction, as if in shock, and he takes a moment to push the glasses back up his nose before responding, ‘Good morning.’

His voice is a velvety baritone. There’s a subtle gap in one of his raised eyebrows. She wants to smooth over it with her thumb.

‘My name is Elizabeth Swann. I’ve been jogging in this park every morning for four months now.’ She works to keep any accusation out of her voice. She’s stating a fact. That’s all.

‘Yes, I know,’ he replies, and it seems to surprise him as much as it does her, for he quickly fumbles to add, ‘I mean, I knew you’d been here every morning, not your name.’

There is a beat of silence, where he continues to gaze up at her as though she’s done something profoundly unusual rather than merely introducing herself. Then, all at once, he rises in a rush, nearly tipping his book and pencil out of his lap and into the grass, but he manages to catch them against his thigh before setting them aside. His eyes fall closed as he heaves an audible sigh, and, when he opens them, the stunned expression has all but faded, replaced by something altogether more warm in nature.

‘It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Swann. My name is James Norrington.’

Elizabeth stifles a giggle at his formality, all her previous trepidation having vanished somewhere in the midst of his awkward juggling act. ‘Elizabeth will do, James. Or Lizzie, if you’re feeling brave.’

James seems nonplussed by her teasing tone, so she sits on the opposite end of the bench, giving him tacit permission to resume his usual spot in the hopes that familiar ground will put him at ease.

‘I couldn’t help but notice you’re here every day as well. Even on the dreary ones.’

‘Yes. I like to take some time to myself before work.’ He flinches after saying the words ‘to myself,’ so she assumes his intention was not to chastise her for interrupting.

‘And where is that?’

He gestures vaguely over his shoulder. ‘Up at the University.’

She’s delighted to be proven right yet again. ‘You’re a professor?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you teach?’

‘Romantic Era Literature and Poetry.’

Elizabeth’s answering smile is almost feral in its ferocity. ‘It suits you.’

He blushes, and it is such a pure and genuine reaction that she has to avert her eyes to make sure he doesn’t see the unexpected surge of want it’s sparked within her.

Her dropped gaze alights on the notebook then, which lies on the bench between them, left open in James’ scramble to complete introductions. But the pages aren’t covered in the neat, spidery script she’d often pictured, but rather in a myriad of life-like drawings. Enchanted, she reaches out to flip a page, but belatedly thinks to ask permission.

‘May I?’

He nods, visage nigh inscrutable.

It’s all here. The flowerbeds. The pond. The dogs and their humans. The flock of greedy birds. Her oaks. Her bridge. Her rose bushes. All in an incredible detail that could only be borne of practice and careful study.

‘These are magnificent,’ she breathes in wonder. She meets his gaze, and then, because it’s true, she says it again. ‘They’re magnificent, James.’

Clearly uncomfortable with the praise, he rakes a hand through his hair, rendering it fetchingly tousled in his wake, and her hands itch to do the same.

‘Thank you.’ 

The next page reveals a familiar face, lit up with a proud grin. ‘This is the pasty vendor, isn’t it? The one just outside the park entrance?’

‘Ranveer, yes. I order from him quite often.’ There is a pause where he seems to be considering his next words, and Elizabeth is too hungry for more to fill the silence herself. ‘He’s a veteran, like me.’

‘You were in the army?’

James shakes his head. ‘The Navy. It...runs in the family.’ He must spy the question in her eyes, for he clarifies, almost reluctantly, ‘Medical discharge.’ A hand drifts to his side, as though to palm some old wound, and Elizabeth feels a pang of something so acutely tender, it’s almost painful.

She changes the subject by way of flipping another page.

There are more people in this set, each rendered in a way that could be considered reverent for all the attention paid to the features that make them unique. Elizabeth begins asking about each one, and is not only rewarded with their names, but also whatever clever minutiae he has connected to them. She is utterly charmed by what details he’s seen fit to catalogue, and by how often he incorporates those details into his art.

And, the more interest she shows, the more he relaxes into the conversation. Like he’s happy to share this with her. Like he’s happy to share _anything_ with her.

But that could be her projection coming to bear once again.

While laughing at some arch comment he’s made about the resident avian population being no better than winged pirates, Elizabeth skips all the way to the back of the sketchbook. When he registers what she’s doing, James makes a strangled noise of protest, but it’s too late.

She’s already seen.

It’s...it’s her. Again and again. In different clothing. From different angles. A collage of her own countenance filling page after page. Such fastidious recreation of the planes of her profile could only be achieved through intense study. Which means...while she’d been watching him, he’d been watching her too.

There’s writing in the margins of these pages. Dates. Notes about weather and lighting. But also verse. Some of it she recognizes- Keats, Wordsworth, Byron- but not all. And even though she can feel the embarrassment coming off him in waves, she is far too enraptured by the intimacy of being so perceived to cease her exploration, too spellbound by the revelation that none of it was ever one-sided.

She was never simply scenery.

She was _his_ stranger too.

The final, unfinished drawing is from the day she didn’t complete her fifth lap. Her lips are turned up in laughter. Her eyes are aglow. She’s haloed in divine light. And the excerpt scratched below:

_And now I see with eye serene  
The very pulse of the machine;  
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,  
A Traveler between life and death._

Elizabeth’s eyes well up with tears as she swallows down the sob trying to wrest out of her throat. Her voice is distressingly tremulous in her own ears, but it’s suddenly too important for her not to ask, ‘And this woman? What can you tell me about her?’

His own voice is soft, soothing, the tone one reserves for spooked horses and frightened children. ‘She likes dogs. Especially the big ones. Less so their owners, but that speaks to good taste.’

Her fingers trace the line of her sketched smile as he continues. ‘She’s thoughtful. Cares about the environment. Hates litter with a persistent passion. And...she’s determined. Driven. I’ve watched her progress from two laps each morning to five. Nothing seems to slow her down.’

He lapses into a silence that draws her gaze to his. ‘Why did you never ask _her_ name? You know everyone else’s?’

Something wistful tugs at the corner of his lips. ‘Somehow...it seemed an intrusion. Somehow...it seemed that wasn’t what she needed.’

It hadn’t been. And somehow, he’d known. Overwhelmed, Elizabeth closes the book and extends it toward him. He takes hold of the other end, but she doesn’t let go, allowing it to link them every bit as much as her pleading eyes drilling into his.

‘Why weren’t you here last week? You weren’t here- but you’re always here. And I...I was worried something had…’ The rest sticks to the roof of her mouth.

There is an earnesty that has climbed into his gaze, a gravitas that mirrors her own. ‘I went to visit my parents. I didn’t expect to stay so long.’ He offers her a wan half-smile. ‘I would have rather been here.’ Then he pauses, brows knitting. ‘Were you...truly worried about me?’

The cautious hope threading his tone pries open the gate behind which she’s trapped her words, and it all comes cascading out. ‘I was. Your absence forced me to face that anything could have happened to you, and I would never have known. You’d just be...gone. And I’d never get to introduce myself. I’d never get to hear your voice. I’d never get to tell you how much watching you feed the local fauna has lifted my spirits these past months.’

He laughs, and so does she, something buoyant and sparkling filling her lungs. She presses on only in her mind, dizzy with the implications of the things she can’t yet say to him.

_I’d never get to tell you that you’ve become important to me. Even though we’d never spoken. Even though we’d never made eye-contact. You were a part of the routine I’ve built to save myself, a part of the path I took to heal. And my life would have been lesser for your loss._

Someday...someday perhaps she’ll give the rest voice, but for now, she simply smirks as she adds, ‘I never would have gotten to tell you how handsome you are.’

He blushes again, to the tips of his ears, and Elizabeth wants to eat him up.

James clears his throat and tucks the sketchbook into the messenger bag lying in the grass next to the bench. ‘Now, that _would_ have been a shame. For I wouldn't have been able to return the compliment by telling _you-_ ’ He breaks off until his eyes have returned to hers, and the severity of the sincerity swirling in their depths tingles all the way down her spine. ‘You are the single most beautiful entity I have ever had the privilege to behold.’

Elizabeth blinks, fruitlessly battling a blush of her own. Now, _that’s_ a compliment. And it makes her want to do more than just eat him up.

Oblivious to the less than chaste nature of her musing, James stands, checking his wristwatch. ‘It’s still early,’ he observes before offering her an outstretched hand. ‘Perhaps you would permit me the pleasure of buying you a coffee?’

She takes his proffered hand, but opts not to relinquish it after rising to his side. He doesn’t seem all that eager to have it back anyway.

‘I would, thank you. In fact, I know just the place.’

\---

The next morning, as Elizabeth rounds the rose bushes, James is seated in his usual spot. It’s a bow tie day. And he’s brought another bag of birdseed. He looks up from his journal at the sound of her approach, a smile blooming across his face at the sight of her.

 _Four laps,_ she decides. And the last one will end right back here. With James.

Her stranger.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to all of my beloved strangers: all my readers and followers whose presence is comforting and whose absence would make my life lesser. I cannot possibly introduce myself to all of you, but that does not mean I don't mark you. Because I do. And more than that, I value you. Each of you.
> 
> Thank you for existing.  
> And thank you for sharing that existence, however briefly, with me.
> 
> You are not simply scenery.  
> You are loved.


End file.
